like the hands on a clock
by miserella
Summary: He doesn't get it, not really, because it's not as if they're doing anything wrong. They're just two old friends meeting up for lunch once a week, spending a mere hour and a bit together. Then they pay the bill and leave, not to see or speak to each other until the next Wednesday that comes along.


This is the result of a prompt I got on tumblr from an anon, which was for an angst fic where Finn and Quinn try to stay friends in their adult life by always doing lunch even though they both have significant others. To my anon: I'm not sure if this is what you wanted, so I apologize if you had to wait this long for it and I completely missed the mark. I hope you can enjoy it, anyway.

* * *

Their meetings work like the hands on a clock, synchronized to reach each other but only for a moment. Their place in time is somewhere around 11:30-the pattern is that he's always there by 11:27 and she's never later than 11:34—but they always make it there before lunch begins, every Wednesday at that little hole in the wall diner on Main. Joe's has a fairly loyal clientele, mostly made up of old men in suits who he thinks come back to reminisce (as one man told them once, Joe's used to be "the place you went to eat before you went out to drink and the place you came to eat the morning after"), but it's a limited one. There are never more than four customers there at the same time as them, and they're normally by themselves.

Finn thinks he and Quinn must stand out, two young people in their late twenties taking the same corner booth in the back where the paint is peeling and the leather seats squeak. Quinn says they're just another couple of faces.

He guesses that's probably what they should be.

"He's called the office at lunch on Wednesdays for the past three weeks," Quinn notes, shaking pepper over her fries. "I told him I've been meeting a long lost relative."

He doesn't get it, not really, because it's not as if they're doing anything wrong. They're just two old friends meeting up for lunch once a week, spending a mere hour and a bit together. Then they pay the bill and leave, not to see or speak to each other until the next Wednesday that comes along.

(If this was five years ago, when they both first moved to the city, lost in its size and its streets, he would understand. Then it was about being close; it was about sitting in that same booth for hours on end debating over the shade of the curtains or the legitimacy of the autographed Johnny Cash photo hung haphazardly on the wall. There were whispered love declarations without replies, but only because they already knew the answer. But this isn't five years ago.

Since then, Joe's has slowly run itself farther down than it was when they first walked into the joint, hand in hand, those many years ago. It reminds him of those pictures of frowning clowns, sad with an air of better times.

Now their lunches are all about ninety minutes of catching up and comfortably long silences; it's keeping each other just close enough to brush with fingertips.)

Finn can't really argue, though. He's never told any of his girlfriends about the woman he meets with every Wednesday. Even if there's nothing clandestine about it, he figures none of them need those kinds of problems.

After Quinn pops one of the peppered fries into her mouth, she spills, "He wants to meet you."

Finn's eyebrows raise, taking his time to chew and swallow. "Me as in your long lost…"

"Seventy-three year old great aunt Emmeline. Yes."

Quinn continues to look down at her plate, while Finn directs his amused gaze right at her. It's only a moment before they start laughing at it all. Shaking his head, Finn asks, "What do you plan on doing about that?"

"Nothing," she shrugs. "Ignore it until he forgets about it."

That's how it usually goes, so it's not all that surprising. But while he believes there'd be trouble if they were open about their encounters, he also thinks that maybe the secrecy is the trouble itself. Quinn and her boyfriend have been together for a few years now, and from what he's heard, it's been serious for a while. He wonders often about how Quinn would tell him and what would happen, because he thinks they almost owe it to him.

It's just that whenever he thinks about that, his gut twists inside him and he prays that he can keep his ninety minutes of her a week to himself.

...

For a world as small as this one always turns out to be, it's easy to hide in the shadows of the city.

They were drawn to it at first because of its enormity, larger than life—especially theirs—and dense enough to slip unnoticeably between the cracks. Not much has changed, when he really thinks about it.

...

"I met someone," he brings up the following Wednesday over milkshakes and chicken strips.

Quinn prods him on to tell the full story, or at least an abridged version of what he's sure will be the meeting of his next girlfriend. While Quinn has had her one long-term relationship, Finn has nearly been the opposite—a new girl for every few months. He doesn't delude himself with thoughts of each one being _the_ one, but he likes having someone that likes _him_ around, especially when he kind of likes them back.

(He always thought he'd get married, have a couple of kids. He still wants that, but there's only one person he can imagine having it with and…)

At the end of it all—'it all' being mostly brief and definitely not detail-oriented—she quirks a smile and lays a soft gaze on him. "She sounds lovely."

It's never been genuine, though he thinks it's only something he can see, but he smiles along anyway.

...

A couple of weeks later, Quinn admits something of her own.

"I can't come next week," she says, sympathy dripping from the words. Of course, they've missed a few weeks in the past—it's inevitable. This, however, has been the first one in a while.

"He's booked a trip for our anniversary… A week in Whistler." He doesn't miss how she rolls her eyes just slightly though her voice is sweet.

"That will be… nice," he comments. It will be. The ski resort is gorgeous in the summer time, fresh and bustling with activity and mountain bikers, which Quinn knows her boyfriend is into.

She sighs. "He didn't even ask me, Finn. I know it's supposed to be sweet but—I have to work. I can't just take a week off with a moment's notice."

Finn smiles, knows it runs deeper than that. His voice is gentle when he says, "Yes, you can. You should."

Quinn kisses his cheek as they're parting ways, which he knows is her way of saying she'll miss him.

...

He eats by himself at Joe's that Wednesday because it feels wrong not to.

His waitress—their waitress, as always, Pattie—snaps her gum while she stands at his (their) table, before she asks, "Where's the girl?"

"Somewhere out there," he laughs, nodding to the outdoors. He chooses to be private, for secrecy's sake.

Placing an old coffee-stained mug down by his hand, she lingers. "D'you two break up or somethin'?"

"No, no," he shakes his head. "I mean, we were never really together, unless you count when we were sixteen but—no. She's just…."

Pattie laughs then, loud and bubbly, snapping her gum again. She's much like a teenager in the body of a thirty-something whose seen more of the world than they'd like to acknowledge. "Sounds complicated… but I guess it always is." Pouring steaming coffee into the mug she put down, she switches gears, asking, "Burger and a chocolate shake today?"

He chuckles along with her, nodding when she recalls his regular order. "Thanks, Pattie."

It's funny to him because he never thought of it as complicated, what they have or what they do.

Maybe it's just really simple to him. Too simple.

...

On Sunday night, he gets a call.

"I'm coming over," she whispers.

He's sitting in front of the TV with a nearly-finished beer in his hand, watching The Walking Dead, so he just says, "Uh, okay."

It takes him by surprise, to say the least. There have been few times that they've seen each other outside of Joe's in the past year, and her voice sounds different over the phone.

There's a pause. "Where do you live?"

...

She looks tired when he opens the door; the hair that is normally up in a twisty updo at lunch is down and he can actually tell—for the first time in a while—how long her hair is and notes that it's longer than he remembers. She's wearing a bare minimum of make up and it's smudged along lines that had been perfectly drawn some time earlier.

He says, "You look beautiful," despite all that—despite that she's in a plain tank top and jean shorts, despite that he shouldn't (and yet he says it all the time anyway).

She looks away. "Can I come in?"

After he points around his small apartment—that's as much of a tour as he can possibly give—they end up on the couch he took from his mom when she moved away from Lima to a nice condo in Florida with Burt once he and Kurt established themselves elsewhere.

He offers wine, beer, anything and is glad when she says, "Whatever you're having," because all he has is beer, milk, and orange juice in his fridge. When he comes back with two ice cold bottles of a local brew, he finally asks why she's here.

"For some stupid reason, I wanted to tell you first," she breathes, looking frustrated with herself. He sits beside her and takes a pull from his bottle. He already knows what come's next.

(It doesn't stop the butterflies from whipping about.)

"James proposed," she admits simply.

He glances down at her hand, clasped tightly around the bottle. "You're not wearing a ring."

"It was too small. We're getting it resized tomorrow."

He doesn't doubt that it's beautiful—perfectly her. He may have never met James, but he seems like someone that should be with Quinn: apparently kind, funny, good with kids, successful. Certainly he would have enough money for a ring that would reflect the beauty of his bride-to-be. Mrs Fabray apparently adores him and his friends seem to like having her around, if all that Finn's heard has been true.

This turn of events comes at the surprise of no one, as it is obvious to everyone that this step is the next logical one for the couple. Finn's thought of it happening before—how she would announce it, when it would happen—but he still doesn't know what to say.

"I'm happy for you."

It's pathetically robotic, the most cliché response in the book. Quinn winces at the same time he does.

"I just wanted to tell you myself," she says, almost dejectedly. Taking her first and final swig of her drink, she stands up quickly. "I should go."

"Please don't," he protests, following her halfway to the door. He doesn't mean to say it, but he _means _it nonetheless, so he doesn't take it back.

She sighs tiredly. "Why should I stay, Finn?"

Finn cringes at the question, rubbing a hand through his already messy hair. "Don't… Don't ask me that."

What they have is fine as it is. There's no need to bring up the past or long-buried thoughts. Surely she would agree.

Quinn's arms hang by her side as she smiles at him, barely there and almost bitter. It still looks sweet upon her face, soft and gentle like she was only in the quietest of moments. Her eyes drop to the ground, then glance around the space of his apartment. "It's nice," she nods. "Your place."

He thanks her—it's small, but it's not bad. Not much to be proud of, but it's nothing to be ashamed of, either. It just—it's never felt like home. He thinks Lima will always be home to him, whether he wants it to or not.

But looking around it now, as she does, he feels a little more at peace. Comfortable. Like he's not waiting to be somewhere else or waiting for something to happen.

"Goodbye, Finn."

She walks back to him, padding her feet along the hardwood floors, and lays a hand on his cheek. In the next moment, she leans up to the other and kisses above the stubble lining his chin.

As she's turning the knob on his front door, he blurts, "What about Wednesday?"

He thinks it's a fair question—he's pretty confused by all this—but she looks just slightly insulted. It lasts a second before she shakes her head and smiles with her lips pressed together.

"I'll be there." Like an after thought, she adds, "I always will."

Finn just nods; then she's gone.

…

It's months before there's any sort of motion again. It's up and forwards for him, finally, which is great—just great.

He's the one late to Wednesday lunch this time, a rare thing. He comes in with a wide smile on his face, jacket hung over his arm and sleeves rolled up in the warmth of late May. Finn doesn't even apologize when he sits down, ten minutes after she does. Instead, he blurts quite happily the reason for his lateness.

"I was just _promoted_," he says, almost like he doesn't even quite know what that _means_ but knows it's a good thing. And it is.

Her confusion turns into surprise and then excitement. "Oh, Finn," she exclaims, mindlessly laying a hand over his. "That's wonderful."

His hand folds over hers, clasping on, the both of them reveling in the moment. "Yeah, I'm just—it's about time, you know?"

Quinn nods calmly, but her eyes show her enthusiasm for his accomplishment. "You work hard. You deserve it."

He shrugs humbly in response, crooked smile in place on his face. Their eyes meet and it takes Quinn a minute before she slowly slides her hand out of his. Finn looks at the watch on his wrist, remembering that he can't be here long. "I actually gotta go back in," he tells her. "They wanted to talk details after they took lunch, so…"

"Oh," she nods. "No, yeah. Go do what you have to do."

His smile is wide when he leans forward on the table. "Maybe I have a _few_."

Quinn rolls her eyes, but the soft smile on her face says nothing of impatience. "Finn, go." She just barely touches her fingers to his cheek, thumb dipping into his dimple, and it would just feel so natural to kiss him, the best way she'd know how to say good luck and congratulations and all the things she's feeling for him.

Of course, she doesn't—just lets the pads of her fingers drag against his soft skin when she pulls away and watches as his dimples fade along with them.

"Just tell me all about it next Wednesday, okay?"

Getting up from his seat, he grabs the coat he came in with off the back of the chair where he threw it and looks at her (curiously, she thinks). "Actually…"

She raises that eyebrow of hers. "What?"

He looks weird. Unsure.

"I was gonna go for some drinks after work with some of the guys. You know, to celebrate." There's a pause, where Quinn prompts him with a pointed look. "You could come."

She laughs a little at that. "And spend the night drinking with you and '_some of the guys from work'_?"

Finn lifts a single shoulder. "They won't stay long. Come after."

This pause is much longer, or so it feels, and Quinn's gaze slowly slides away from him as she thinks it over. She picks up the napkin in front of her and wipes her hands on it, uselessly, and begins shaking her head. "I don't know, Finn."

On his part, he pushes his lips together and nods his head twice. "Okay. Well, I'll see you next Wednesday."

She watches him go and wishes it didn't have to be like this.

…

By the time she finishes her day at work, she realizes that maybe it doesn't always have to be.

He texted her not long after he left her at their restaurant and it occurs to her that he would have saved her number from the time she called him—the night she got engaged.

6045558979 (11:16):

_in case you change your mind. Donegals on 6th. i'll be there til 7._

She deleted a moment after she read it, but a whisper remained in her ear for the rest of the day. Quinn's done everything by five, and she just knows her mind's made itself up when she starts retouching her makeup in the bathroom.

When she first walks into the Irish pub, she's pleased to see it's not too packed. It looks like there's a regular happy hour crowd, which makes her feel a little more comfortable in her pencil skirt and heels. All the same, she takes her hair down from its bun and removes the crop jacket she'd been wearing, figuring she still looks too prim for the establishment.

Finn's not alone when she spots him. His work pals stand beside him at the bar, looking like they've had a few more drinks than he has. He's got a pint in his hand, but there's still a good three-quarters left of it and it looks like he's just sipping it.

She figures she won't know until she actually goes over there, so that's what she does next. Once she's at his side, opposite his friends, she lays a gentle hand on his shoulder blade. When he sees her, he gets off his stool and turns to face her head on. Finn is practically beaming, looking more like a child than the man she knows today.

She smiles back, but she thinks they're idiots for all of it. For letting it get to this point, for being here, for thinking anything beyond what their realities are.

"Quinn," he breathes, and she looks at him like she doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't.

By now his friends are curious, peering over Finn and craning their heads around his body. She's not sure she wants to meet them, if that's such a good idea. Finn looks back at them and rubs the back of his head nervously, messing up his hair just slightly. "Guys, this is Quinn," he tells them, gesturing towards her. "She's an old friend."

One of them raises his eyebrows at her and another gives a big wave. "Hello, Quinn!" the last one chirps.

Then he moves out of the way, allowing her to take the seat where he'd been previously, and turns to his friends to tell them to move down a spot. When they stop grumbling and everyone's situated, he leans in close and whispers, "I'm glad you came."

At first she blinks at him, but when his face doesn't change, she looks at the bar in front of her and laughs out of disbelief. "I can't believe I did."

"What do you drink?" he asks, waving at the man tending the bar to get his attention. He glances back at her, and she can just see how excited he really is for her to be there.

So she lets herself be a little excited, too—but just a little, because this is _this_ and everything else outside those doors is real.

She shakes her head; she doesn't drink, not really, but when the bartender wipes his hands on a cloth in front of her and asks, "What can I get ya?" she asks for a beer—whatever Finn's having.

…

She didn't used to like beer, but there must be something about the type Finn drinks because she finds herself ordering more than just one.

She also finds herself staying a little later than she planned, not that she really planned on coming in the first place, but here she is. It's half past eight and way too early for her to be enjoying something slightly more than a buzz and way too strange for her to be doing that with this old friend—lover—whatever on a Wednesday night.

She doesn't hate it, so she stays. Finn does too, apparently, even though he had said he wasn't going to stay past seven.

Quinn's not even sure what they're talking about by this point, but it's nothing she cares much about. Little things, like the score of a hockey game (3-2 Rangers). Their dream vacations (Paris for her, Dublin for him). The lipstick she's wearing (he likes it).

"Hey, you know how I got that promotion today?" he says, then, and the air shifts a little.

She's amused, because yeah, that's why she's here, but she chooses just to nod and prod him on.

"Well," he laughs. Something about it is off. "They're, uh, moving me."

Her body feels like it's vibrating from head to toe, like she can't control it, like she can't control anything at all. It's uncomfortable, and she remembers why she never liked to drink. "What does that mean?"

"The position they want me to fill—it's in Chicago. I have two weeks and I'm gone."

It's handy in a way that she doesn't know how to respond, because she also doesn't want to. She's almost, _almost _angry. (She won't ask herself why.)

"Amazing," is what she ends up saying, but it doesn't sound much like she believes it really is.

Finn smiles because he knows. It's not a happy smile, though Quinn is sure that he must be pleased to have been promoted. Of course, he is, and she saw it herself at Joe's. She wonders if he knew then what he's telling her now. She doesn't think so.

"It is what it is," is what _he_ ends up saying, shrugging. Nothing about this seems non-committal, Quinn finds, and his attempt at making it appear that way bothers her.

"I guess that's it then," she smarts. Suddenly she's hostile and neither of them like it. "Maybe you can text me when you get a chance."

Finn's eyebrows furrow together probably out of both hurt and confusion, and his fingers clamp around the last drink he ordered. She's already throwing bills down on the tabletop, grabbing her purse, and sliding out from the booth they moved to earlier on, about two drinks in when his friends left. Quinn knows it's rude and unexpected, but she just has the desire to get away, to end it now, to not have to say goodbye or something like that, and all that would control those thoughts inside her has long since been drowned out with alcohol.

She wobbles just a bit when she stands, but her exit is otherwise clean (quick, long steps, straight for the door, don't look back). The cold air hits her at the same time that she realizes she's mad at herself as much as she's mad at—not _Finn_, but much more than that. She's mad at everything and her and Finn and James are included in that.

She was always an angry drunk, wasn't she?

(It's just that it didn't always have to be this way.)

…

Finn catches up to her when she's just a block away; it's hard to get away fast in heels.

He takes her by the elbow, forceful enough to stop her in her tracks but gentle enough not to scare her. It's darker out now and they stop in front of some storefront where a pink neon sign flickers above them.

"You're not _mad_ at me," he says, like it's so inconceivable, which she thinks it must be.

So she just sighs and pushes a stray hair behind her ear. "No, I'm not. It's just…"

"Yeah," he agrees, dropping his hand from her arm. He gets it. She looks at his chest, doused in magenta, in front of her, and not up at his face, as she wills herself not to cry. She doesn't know why she wants to, but she does know that she doesn't want it to happen at all.

"Quinn…" he whispers, leaning closer and taking her softly by the wrists. His body is in her space and she can smell beer and aftershave but it's not frightening—this is Finn, and he's _right here_. For now, at least. "Quinn, you can come with me."

She laughs, but it sounds distorted and strange. She still doesn't look at him, not until he says again, "Come with me," a little stronger than before.

She speaks slowly and surely in response. "You know I can't."

The grip on her hands loosen a little, but he still holds on. Finn looks right at her, which is the only uncomfortable thing right now. "Why not?"

"Because it's _not that easy_, Finn." She sounds irritated because she is. Under her breath, she scoffs, "God, you're so naïve."

He only looks mildly affected by her words, still hanging on to her hands. "It's as easy as you make it. C'mon, Q. We could go…"

She finally pulls her hands from his, eyebrows rising. "Yeah? Oh, okay," she nods; her words drip with fake enthusiasm. "And what about James? What about my job? My home?"

This entire conversation is sobering, quite literally, though her arms and legs and chest still thrum like before. Quinn's just not sure if that has anything to do with the alcohol anymore.

"You really love him?" he asks softly. She's not sure she if he wants an answer, but he looks at her, _genuinely looks at her_, so she gives him one.

"Yeah," and it's the truth.

He blinks a couple times and licks his lips. "What about me?"

Quinn takes a deep breath and looks down at the sidewalk before lifting her hand to his shoulder. She plays with the collar of his button-up and finally replies, "I love you like I can't have you, Finn."

And it's the truth.

…

He leaves three Wednesdays later; she's not sure if he planned it that way but it doesn't really matter.

…

The week before he leaves, they're sitting in Joe's and paying their bills. She drops her share on the table and glances at him, offhandedly asking, "So, what about next week?"

He's counting out cash in his own wallet and looks up at her. There's a soft smile on his lips when he says, "Leaving that day."

"Oh," she nods. "So you won't be here."

Finn chuckles the tiniest bit and throws the bills down in front of him. "No, but…" He shrugs, still smiling. "Y'know."

She quirks an eyebrow his way, as always, and waits for him to explain.

"I always will."

They never do say goodbye.

…

He's in town for business a year later, but only for a couple days which are easily filled with meetings and assessments and shamelessly (silently) evaluating the guy who filled his old job. Between that and meeting up with old friends from the office, he doesn't have a lot of time before he's due back in Chicago.

He makes time for lunch at Joe's the Wednesday he's there.

Finn's new girlfriend (not _new_ exactly; they met the day after he arrived in Chicago and have been dating for seven months—the longest relationship he's had in a while) calls while he's walking over there, but he doesn't answer it. There's no malice in it. He just wants the moment to himself.

When he gets there, later than he used to, he notes that Pattie isn't the one pointing him over to a table and he wonders if she works there anymore. This shift was always her time, so he guesses not.

"I can put you over there, but let me clean the table first, hun," the older woman says. His eyes are immediately drawn to the booth, and he can see a single plate, a few fries uneaten, and the remnants of a chocolate shake.

"Thanks," he tells her, then waits.

It's not a jarring moment. It's how it always was: just barely catching each other on the fringes of shared time, close enough to feel but not to touch. Perhaps it could have been a love story, but only in passing.


End file.
